


Scratch Exhibitionism (I'd Rather Hear You Moan)

by craple



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 3+1 Things, Crack, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Explicit Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, Joly is sure he is going to murder his friends – specifically Feuilly, Bahorel, and Grantaire – with a wooden spoon stabbed through the back of their necks. It would do the job beautifully, messy beside, but it would.</p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>3 times everyone thinks Bahorel/Feuilly/Grantaire are having sex with them in the room +1 time they <i>cannot think</i> at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scratch Exhibitionism (I'd Rather Hear You Moan)

**Author's Note:**

> lol, oh my god, this just came to me on a whim - i finished this like, in five-seven minutes or so, and i still can't believe i'm uploading this now, oh my god xD anyway, enjoy?

i.

“Where is Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, face scrunched up into something unpleasant, yet still attractive all at once.

Combeferre does not look up from his book. “Wrestling,” he replies. Courfeyrac snickers.

“With Bahorel and Feuilly, on the other side of the house?” the lad scoffs. “Wrestling each other out of their clothes, more like. You have funny ways of saying ‘having sex’ without actually saying it, ‘Ferre.”

Joly comes rushing into the room not a moment later. “Guys! I think –“he exhales shakily, then continues; “I think Grantaire is sick, he’s – he’s moaning in his room, and I’m pretty sure he’s throwing things into the wall, it’s like _that_ time when Enj – _we_ got arrested, and –“

“Calm down, Joly,” Jehan pipes up, from where he is buried in a mountain of books, next to Combeferre’s seat. “Bahorel and Feuilly are with him. I think he is going to be alright.”

“Oh thank god,” Joly says. “I should probably check on them, yes? Give them some liquid or another,” to which Courfeyrac fall over his stool by the bar, laughing. “If it’s liquid you are worried about, there’s going to be plenty, knowing Bahorel’s stamina,” and Enjolras _flushes_.

It takes a moment for the words to register, and when it does, Feuilly trips over nothing and stutters and flushes. “Oh my god – in _Musain_?” he turns back to the staircases where he had ran from. “Grantaire, you _dog_!”

ii.

“Feuilly, can you do – wait, where in the seven hells is Feuilly?” Combeferre points to the way of the bathroom, where Grantaire is nursing his flask with a foot propping a chair that jams the bathroom’s door.

Enjolras narrows his eyes at him. “Grantaire,” he says, and it truly does sound like a threat, anyone would cringe.

Not Grantaire, of course. Grantaire is too used being on the receiving end of Enjolras’ tone he barely reacts.

“Hey, don’t look at me,” Grantaire says, downing his flask, and Enjolras is forced to watch the way his throat works. “I’m not the one who’s getting blowjob in a semi-public place.”

Joly groans and promptly chokes around a piece of pie.

iii.

One day, Joly is sure he is going to murder his friends – specifically Feuilly, Bahorel, and Grantaire – with a wooden spoon stabbed through the back of their necks. It would do the job beautifully, messy beside, but it would.

He considers doing it _right the fuck now_.

“Your _mouth_ , Taire, Jesus fucking _Christ_.” Bahorel’s voice, a muffled moan, clutters of metal falling and snapping. Feuilly’s laugh rings like a beautiful merry bell.

“Wait until you’re fucking – _fuck_ – his arse.” Behind the counter, Courfeyrac whimpers, Combeferre stone-faced as he gathers his books to leave, and Enjolras leaves the room in a flurry of red and anger and red.

In the kitchen, Bahorel, Feuilly and Grantaire, hidden from sight by hiding under rows of tables and are completely dressed in the most appropriate manner possible, laugh so hard until they choke on their own spit.

Musichetta is not impressed.

+1

When asked concerning Bahorel-Feuilly-Grantaire’s questionable relationship, Jehan outright _laughs_ at their faces. Combeferre has the audacity to look offended, at least, so the poet apologises profusely.

“Where do you think Enjolras is right now, anyway?” Jehan asks, tilting his head just so, lips curving into an adorable yet sly smile.

From upstairs, the sound of glass breaking and skin slapping and sensuous moan and high-pitched whine echo throughout the entire café louder than a gunshot.

“Holy fuck –“

“I feel so dirty –“

“ _What_.”

Jehan laughs, and laughs, and doesn’t stop laughing until both Enjolras and Grantaire come downstairs, red-faced and sated-smile curling on their lips.

No one can look at them in the eyes for a month straight.


End file.
